


Every Minute Down to Redemption

by Lia404



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Depression, EMDR, Gen, Goro Akechi lives, Healing, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stream of Consciousness, Therapy, They all need hugs and a therapy but damn if Goro isn't the one who needs it most, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 00:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20898548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lia404/pseuds/Lia404
Summary: Against all odds, he had survived and ended up turning himself in.Against all odds, he wasn’t given the death penalty, sent instead in a rehabilitation center--the irony--where he was finally given the attention no one had given him when he most needed it.And Goro hated every minute of it.





	Every Minute Down to Redemption

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a short vent fic. It turned into a monster, because it turns out I have a lot of headcanons about Goro Akechi’s mental health (and a lot of feelings about PTSD and EMDR).  
After almost a month of tweaking, adding, rewriting, removing, playing with parts to try and make it make at least a bit of sense, I'm finally declaring it complete. For my birthday, I offer myself the present that is BEING FINALLY FREE FROM THIS MONSTER.
> 
> From the slow start of a therapy session to the fast dive into a character’s stream of consciousness… I wish you a good ride!

“Do you remember how to signal you want to stop, Akechi-san?”

Goro nodded and silently held his right hand up, turning his head so as to face the left wall.

“Good. Don’t forget: you’re in control. You are the one who decides, in the end, whether we should go further or not. We are going to browse heavy memories and it can be exhausting for your brain to process everything. If you feel the need to stop, anytime, just do the signal. It’s good to go as far as possible, but please don’t strain yourself. You are in control.”

Goro nodded again, doing his best not to let his face betray his thoughts.  
_ As if he ever was in control. As if _ ** _this_ ** _ could be exhausting for his brain, when his brain had already been split and twisted, when it had already endured so much stress. _

“All right. Before we start, please look around and focus on three items you’ll name out loud. Take your time.”

This was stupid. Everything about it was useless, it never made things better. The room was devoid of anything of interest, it was just a white room, four walls with a desk and comfortable chairs. He could probably figure some details here and there, but what good would it do to notice them? He looked around without even trying to repress the bored look on his face.

“Do you have all three items?”

He sighed and nodded--he didn’t have all three items at all--but his therapist didn’t have to know that--he could improvise. He had learnt to become good at improvisation. Such a stupid exercise...

“That book about depression on the shelf, the Newton pendulum on the desk… honestly, this office is a true therapist cliché, are you aware you’re fueling stereotypes? And…”

_ No _ , another part of his mind provided. _ It _ isn’t _ stupid _ . _ You’re _ the one making it stupid.   
His therapist was a professional: trying to rile her up about her office wouldn’t change anything. He _ knew _ that, but it didn’t mean it would prevent him from acting petty. Everything about his situation would make him petty.   
_ Or maybe you could try and be more polite so the people of the facility would leave you alone _ , another part of his mind provided.   
It was so easy to make people believe what he wanted them to believe, even if they were professionals.

_ No _ , the first part pushed on. He wasn’t there to make people believe what he wanted. He was there to _ get better _ .   
Lying wouldn’t do him any good. It wasn’t about being pleasant anymore, it was about being himself even if it meant being petty because it also meant finally getting rid of the--the things--the burden---

“...and?”

Goro silently cursed himself. They had barely started the session and he was already getting lost in the dichotomy of his thoughts.

He shook his head to clear his mind and quickly browsed through the room again. His trained eyes noticed a small detail that hadn’t been there before--or maybe he had never paid attention before.   
He hated that room.   
The less time he spent there…

_ I need this time. I need to be there. I need to be me. _

His reflection looked back at him from the right wall, just beside the desk, letting him appreciate the bags under his eyes, on his defeated face. He sighed again.

“...and your mirror is about to fall from its nail, you might want to fix that. The book, the pendulum and the mirror.”

Unfazed, his therapist just addressed him a small smile.   
It was infuriating.   
He’d spent so much time perfecting his own “trust-me-I’m-perfect” smile, and there she was, with her imperfect smile that was so much more trustworthy, as if it weren’t just a job for her, as if she genuinely wanted him to get better.

“Good. Store these three items in mind for later. Now, when you’re ready, take a deep breath and focus on the initial situation.”

There it was: the damn _ initial situation _ .   
Goro didn’t want to think about the initial situation. 

He focused despite himself on the way too pale, way too tired reflection that was glaring at him from the crooked mirror. He could barely recognise himself anymore--not that he’d ever cared so much for his own face, if it hadn’t been for the image it sent to others.  
Avoiding the _ initial situation _ the best he could, he instead let his mind wander to everything that had led him to his current situation. 

Goro had hated therapy sessions from his first appointment on.   
Back when he’d been in the foster system, he’d undergone a few sessions just to please the social workers, because he’d been an _ unwanted _ , _ not quite balanced child _ . Those appointments had been mostly useless, long gone and forgotten. He’d remained silent most of the time despite every therapist’s desperate attempt to make him speak, tell them his story. He hadn’t cared for them. He had felt _ vulnerable _ and had rather toughed it out than let anything out.

Things were a bit different with this therapist. It wasn’t really like he had any choice to be there either (being locked in rehabilitation in a psychiatric facility among other _ mentally unsound young people who may or may not have killed other people _ did not leave much room for opting out of therapy), but the first words the therapist had said, when faced with his usual defiant silence, had struck him like lightning.

“You can remain silent for the whole time here and I won’t say a word to change your mind...”

He’d just sent her the most dubious glare, low-key amazed at her nerve.

“...Or you can take this opportunity to try and see what I can bring you. No matter what, it’s your call. Despite this institution’s rules, we don’t have to force you through therapy. I am sworn to medical confidentiality, I take it very seriously, and nothing you say or do will get out of this room. You have to attend, but if you don’t want to say anything, then we can just wait for the end of the session and you won’t get in trouble because you refused to speak. It’s your choice, your first step to make. No one can force you to do it, and no one will do it in your stead. Especially not me.”

Then she’d just answered his scorning face with a disgustingly nice smile that had seemed to hold all the kindness in the world.  
Goro didn’t like delving into painful things, he didn’t like feeling babied, he didn’t like making himself vulnerable, and most of all, he _ hated _ being there.  
After a few minutes of silence, Goro had just elected to tell her the truth.

“I don’t belong here. They should have sent me to a real prison, given me the death penalty. I hate this place, I hate being here. I’ve always hated therapy.”

It hadn’t made her lose her smile.

“There are reasons they elected to send you here instead of prison, Akechi-san, and I doubt anyone enjoys therapy. We can try and make it not as terrible for you as you seem to expect it will be. Would you like to share something nice, something that would make this whole session better? We don’t have to talk only about bad things. Is there anything you really like and would agree to talk about?”

Goro had found himself dumbstruck. There had been so many things he actively wanted to avoid talking about that he had never considered there would be things he might actually like to talk about. He had pondered for a while before blurting out the first thing that came to mind.

“Coffee.”

His therapist had barely raised an eyebrow.

“I like coffee. It’s warm, and it’s grounding, and it’s soothing. I like coffee.”  
“That’s a good start. I like coffee too. Do you remember the first time you had coffee?”

It had been a therapy trick, of course. It had been such a blatant trick. Therapists were tricksters and “do you remember” was their easiest trick and Goro had walked straight into it.   
But he actually _ had _ remembered the first time he had had coffee and it had been so _ humiliating _ but it had also been the kind of memory that he maybe almost would have been ready to share because it was way, way less worse than so many other memories.   
Talking about it actually could be brushed off as a joke, as something only a stupid teenager could do, something to laugh off before falling back into silence just so that session would be over faster.

That was how he had ended up telling her about his first day as an official detective in the police station, when he’d tried to act all grown-up and fit in with the rest of the adults by accepting a cup of coffee without batting an eye, as if he’d always been used to drinking it--even though his foster families had never let him try any.  
It had been a disaster. He’d ended up choking on the too bitter taste he was unused to, and the officers around him had all laughed and made fun of him. After that, his colleagues had left a new cup of coffee on his desk every morning, and despite not being sure whether it was a way to make more fun of him, or a twisted way to make him feel welcome, he’d swallowed each cup out of spite, until he’d come to rely on the beverage more than he knew, and even learnt to enjoy it.

That was all he’d meant to share at that time. The kind of amusing memory that he could have shared on a TV show, that would have made him sound cute to high-school girls and would have made the adults laugh because he had been _such an oblivious_ _kid_, smart but not-too-smart, not _threatening_, just the right amount of _innocence_.

He had planned to fall back to silence after that.   
He had failed when he’d realised the story had not made the therapist laugh that _ adult laughter _ as expected. When she had only nodded without even saying a word, he had just stared, baffled, waiting for something to come but nothing came… and feeling compelled to balance this unexpected silence, he had started talking again.  
Talking about how the people on the TV show would have laughed and said it was a cute story and, oh, Akechi-san, you really started working so young, but even geniuses are human, right?  
Talking about how other adults had enjoyed making fun of him.  
Talking about how high schoolers had enjoyed idolising him--and did she have any idea how _ weird _ it was, to have people idolising you for something you weren’t--before completely forgetting about him.  
Talking about how other children had made fun of him.  
Talking about how he’d been duped when he’d thought he’d been duping others.  
Talking about how many times that had almost led him to die, but he ended up still alive and arrested instead and…  
...and before he’d known, he’d dived straight into her trap and shared a lot more than what he’d intended.

The end of the session had come very fast, and when he’d realised he had talked so much while the therapist merely nodded to his words, he had stormed out of the office without even saying goodbye and furiously rushed back to his confined room under the strict eyes of his guards. Maybe he had also yelled in a pillow to blow off the frustration and anger at having been _tricked again_, but he wasn't about to admit it.

The next session, when the therapist had tried to comfort him by saying he had done well, he had just put on his best TV smile and told her that he hated her and wouldn’t say anything more.

She had just smiled _ that disgusting smile again _, then nodded, and gone to explain that if he didn’t want to vocally share things, there were other ways that could maybe help him deal with his burden more easily.

Another trap. He had hated how well she could read him, how willing he was to speak about himself, how desperate he was to get rid of said _ burden _ , to be able to sleep at night, to be able to face himself in the mirror without scowling.  
_ He should have been dead _.

He wouldn’t have to make sense, she’d said. She didn’t care about meaning. She didn’t even care about the absolute truth behind anything he could say. She wasn’t a judge, she wasn’t here to evaluate how truthful his words were. If he felt like he had to say something, if it felt like it was burdening him, then it was true enough for her. She only cared about how he saw things and felt about them.   
He’d only have to watch, she’d explained, as if he were an outsider, a spectator of the situation, and sometimes comment. And _follow with his eyes_.

And that, coupled with the topic he’d chosen to talk about during the first session, was how _ coffee _ had become the _ initial situation _.

“Akechi-san? Do you remember what the initial situation was?”

He almost jumped in surprise. How long had he been reminiscing? It was infuriating: the tone of her voice wasn’t even _ berating _, she was just making sure he was still here, anchoring him, forcing him to remember something he really didn’t want to remember anymore. It wasn’t even like said situation was that big of a deal, compared to other things he had dealt with. It was ridiculous, really, a small mistake made by a too-proud teenager, or maybe a too-self-conscious boy…

They’d spent so many hours working on that memory that he was starting to feel desensitised, as if someone else had lived it instead of him. It was tiring. But it was the _ initial situation _ and sessions always started with it, and it always led him to places he was way less willing to reach.

“Akechi-san?”

Right. Police station. First coffee ever. The burn in his throat, and how he’d almost thrown up while the adults around were laughing. He scowled.

“I have the initial situation.”  
“Very well. On a scale from zero to ten, how high is your level of disturbance when you think about it?”

His mind provided him with the image of his younger self take a gulp and choke, and the adults mocking him. It seemed so far, though. Almost foreign. He felt confused.

“I feel like it should be at least seven because I should be infuriated, but it’s more of a… three? It’s like it’s not me anymore.”

“Good. Now, when you think of this situation, on a scale from one to seven, how well do you think the words “silly boy” and “unprofessional” relate to this?”

“A… five, I suppose?”

Objectively, it_ was _ unprofessional and it _ was _ a silly boy’s mistake, no matter who did it. But when he thought about it, maybe anyone his age would have done the same mistake in his stead. Maybe it really wasn’t fair that _ he _ was the one feeling bad about it when the adults around knew perfectly well what they were doing. Maybe it wasn’t a full seven. Maybe it wasn’t even a complete five. But five would do.

“Right. Now please, focus on that situation, observe it, and follow my fingers with your eyes.”

Goro dreaded that moment.

The therapist raised her left hand, folding every finger but two, and started swaying her hand like a pendulum in the air. He did his best to try and follow the motion with his eyes, keeping the rest of his body still. He could already feel his back go stiff.   
Left, right, left, right… Coffee. Police officers. He was a kid. Was he a kid? Had he ever been allowed to be a kid? No, wait, the initial situation was already slipping away from him… Seriously, what was the point anymore? They’d spent _hours_ on this stupid coffee situation. It was getting _old_.  
The therapist slowly closed her hand and lowered it.

“Alright, take a deep breath. What is coming to you, now?”

He knew the question was coming, but he still was caught off guard. He took an exaggeratedly deep breath to try and come up with something, but his mouth spoke faster than his mind.

“It’s useless.”  
“Very well. Focus on that.”

She didn’t leave any time, and already her hand was swinging in the air. What was he even meant to focus on? Focus on how useless it all was, or on how fast his mind seemed to jump from one thought to another, no more police officer, the coffee had a different taste, it was another place, another time, but he didn’t want to think about it, so he blocked the new memories popping up and focused back on the police officers instead, and his mind wandered again, and he wasn’t quite sure where to, but his neck was so _ stiff _ , and _ wait, what am I going to say when she stops _ , his rationality caught him back, but before he managed to figure another thought it was already gone and the hand went one last time right, one last time left, and he tried hard to focus and… _ No, don’t lower your hand yet, I don’t know what to say! _

He panicked. 

“Take a deep breath…”  
“I don’t know what to say.”  
“It’s fine. Focus on this. Observe.”

And again, the hand started flying.  
While he _really _tried keeping his eyes on the motion, his mind flew back to his previous thought, extrapolating once more how all of this was useless, it was stupid, it wouldn’t do anything, it had never done anything. They already thought he was crazy and they were probably right about it--but it didn’t excuse anything.

They didn’t believe in cognitive psience in the facility anyway--wait, why was he thinking about cognitive psience? _ He shouldn’t be thinking about cognitive psience _ . He didn’t want to talk about cognitive psience. The therapist would ask him what thought was coming and then he’d answer something about cognitive psience and she would tell them because everyone knew medical secrecy was bullshit and then they would just lock him back into his confined room into the crazy district and after all _ he already was in the crazy district _ that was why he was here after all he killed people because he was crazy wasn’t it? And there his mind was going too fast, and was there even anything to add to this thought, and _ oh no she’s lowered her hand and is asking me again… _

He tried to take a deep breath. It ended a gurgle.

“My mind goes too fast and I’m crazy.”

He would berate himself for letting his walls down, but he knew that somehow these stupid hand movements just broke through every filter he could have.  
The therapist barely acknowledged the fact. She just gave a small nod and prompted him:

“It happens when you take the dive. It’s normal. You’re doing things well.”

The praise left a bitter taste in his mouth. He was _ not _ doing well. His mind was providing him with anything but useful thoughts. He hated being here and it wasn’t helpful and she said it was but he couldn’t _ feel _ it, and...

“I can see it’s hard on you. Don’t forget we can stop anytime. But let’s go back to our initial situation, now. Do you have it?”

_ Coffee. _ He nodded, not even trying to dig further than this one word. Figuring back the memory was so straining, and his mind would digress as soon as he would reach the blurry borders of it anyway. _ Coffee _. Its bitter taste biting the tongue of a boy he wasn’t anymore.

“Observe.”

It was so far away. It felt like he was looking at the memory through the window of a train... it was already gone. He kept on watching as other memories pop up, unprompted, like the scenery of a crowded city. He almost felt like he was back in that awful metro, his suit too stuffy and his smile tight enough for the people around. His right hand clenched on an imaginary suitcase while he did his best to keep his eyes locked on her swaying fingers, before she slowly came to a stop and asked him again to take a deep breath.

As he did so, he realised how stiff his face was. Despite himself, the Detective Prince had slipped back in place, the tight smile that had popped up in his mind had found its way to his lips.   
It wasn’t even like he cared what the therapist thought, but the smile was still there. A reflex, if anything.

“What is here, now?”  
“I’m smiling like I used to, like people loved when I did. Can you see it? I’m not even trying, it’s just here. I could tell the most gruesome stories while wearing this smile. I could get into the worst details of a very graphic murder I investigated without feeling a thing, just smiling like that. I sound like a psychopath, don’t I?”  
“Without feeling a thing, really? Focus on that smile.”

His lips twitched, his face muscles straining a little, but the smile remained. It was a smile that used to have such a big impact.   
People literally _lived_ for it, for the lies it brought. Some girls had posters of this smile in their bedroom. Maybe boys, too. Back then, he had barely ever read fanmail, but he couldn’t prevent himself from checking comments on his social media.   
_You’re so beautiful, you’re an inspiration_.   
_My parents want me to become like you, and I want to become like you too. _  
_Do you have a girlfriend? I want to be your girlfriend._  
_You’re so cute!!!!1!!!11  
__I promised myself if I got a good grade at my next test then I’d be allowed to watch you new interview. I got the best mark! I’m so happy and it’s all thanks to you! I love you!_

Most of the time, he’d just like the comments, picturing their author squealing when they’d get the notification. Sometimes, he’d even go out of his way to answer them with a short thankful message or an emoji, and then he’d get even more notifications. 

_ Akechi-san, every night I fall asleep exhausted and every morning I still manage to wake up thinking that there are good people like you existing in this world, thank you for your hard work.  
_ _ Knowing you’re alive keeps me alive. _

This kind of comments was the reason why he’d tried to avoid reading fanmail. It was disgusting, how he’d found himself caught in the web of lies he’d woven. It was terrifying to read how people built an image of him he was slowly losing control over. His fake self was an inspiration. _ A reason to live _ .  
He felt his mind split at the mere notion. How ironical, how ridiculous, how pathetic. To live for the image of someone who didn’t even exist. To be the reason to live for so many people when all you wished for was destruction and…

“Take a deep breath.”

Maybe the breath he took was a bit deeper than he intended. His smile was long gone, and he had a hard time removing the snarl on his face.

“People lived for something I wasn’t.”  
“But weren’t you, really? Focus on that.”

What did she mean, _ really _ ? Of course that wasn’t what he really was. Of course he never really was an inspiration.  
Is it real if people start to believe it? Is it real enough when people tell you that… No, it wasn’t real, none of this was. It was all a twisted reality.  
Twisted…  
Would he have had a palace, hadn’t he been given the power of his persona? Would he still have one? The metaverse was gone, and so were the memories in the audience’s mind. They only remembered him as the murderer who turned himself in to the force hoping for justice to be served, finally. They’d failed him. He should have been _ sentenced to death _ but he was still alive. What was wrong with these people? How could they believe the narrative of the _ mentally unsound teenager who suffered from abuse all his life _ … and even so, how did it excuse anything? They had _ forgotten _, they were believing the lies, he couldn’t…

“What is here now, Akechi-san?”

He almost jumped. His strained eyes had barely noticed she had lowered her hand this time, and he had missed the “breathe” step. 

“I can’t trust others. They forget. But I don’t forget.”  
“Alright. Focus on it.”

What was there to focus on, again? The fact that people forgot? How do you even convince people you’re a true criminal when the place where the crimes occurred doesn’t exist anymore? The evidence was circumstantial at most. No fingerprint, no solid proof, no witnesses: only blurred minds of the stupid mass. How could he trust anyone to give an appropriate verdict when the ones actually remembering what happened could be counted on the fingers of his hands?  
How could he trust anyone to _help_ him when they wouldn’t even acknowledge how _wrong_ he had been?  
How could he trust someone who had no idea what he’d been through?  
How could he trust someone who had never seen this world?  
How could he trust?  
_Trust_?

The word looped in his mind. This time he didn’t miss the mark, followed the lowering hand of the therapist with his eyes, took a deep breath when prompted, and merely dropped in a cold voice:

“I don’t trust you.”  
“Why don’t you? What is coming with this?”

His eyes went back to lazily follow the left-right-left-right of the fingers in the air. Why didn’t he trust? What a silly question. Had he ever even trusted anyone?   
_Yes_, his mind provided. _Of course you have_. And he was back to thoughts he didn’t want to share, didn’t even want to think, and actively avoided, back to a void where the words _Don’t trust, don’t trust, don’t trust_ kept echoing, as if he was locked inside them, and Goro could feel the beginning of a headache, and when the therapist lowered her hand he was grateful for the deep breath he could take.  
When she asked him what was coming, though, he found himself short of anything to say.  
What was he focusing on already? It was like the sudden intake of oxygen had erased everything.  
He blinked.

“...There’s… Nothing. I just--nothing.”

He pondered for a while, trying to find _ anything _ to say, _ quick _ , before she would get a chance to ask him to focus on that _ nothingness _ that could only bring more headaches.

“Your ring glimmers in the light, and you give a strange, tiny flicker with the tip of your fingers before you withdraw your hand.”

He caught her gaze falling on said ring and she failed to hide a small smile that was, for once, not aimed at him. Eh. Therapists were human, and this one was way too human to deal with someone like him.  
It made him sick.

“Alright. Let’s go back to the initial situation.”

_ No! _ He screamed internally, _ not _ ** _again_ ** , but _ coffee _ was already there, this time providing him with the unwanted images he’d managed to block earlier… not anymore. His barriers had been lowered, and now the setting of a small coffee shop in a peaceful neighbourhood was finding its way to the front of his mind. The reason he liked coffee… The long evenings enjoying the richness of the aroma, the comforting warmth of the drink. The quietness, the amiability he never deserved, the memory of hidden eyes under messy hair and soft, sometimes wicked, smiles, as the chess pieces clicked on the board and the coffee swirled into the cups. The rare, soft spoken voice, the hint of a challenge...  
It took all his willpower to find back his footing, shaking himself from the memories, and as the therapist lowered her hand, he didn’t even try to breathe, merely blurting out:

“I don’t want to see it.”

She gave a small nod.

“Alright. Then observe. Why don’t you want to see it? How do you feel?”

_ Awful _ .  
It was hard to keep the images at bay now, it was hard to get rid of the overconfident smile and the intense gaze behind the domino mask. It was hard to avoid the bare, empty, shocked eyes staring down the barrel of his own gun--a cognition, but still, a very convincing cognition. It was hard to forget the back and forth of the chess pieces, of the banter in the afternoon, or the cheeky laughter that sometimes broke through the silent facade.   
It was hard to forget the hand held toward him. _ Join us _ . _ Let’s do this together _ .  
It was like time had stopped then.   
His eyes followed the motions of his therapist’s hand, all the while trailing over the standing Phantom Thieves in front of him, offering their help to the one who tried to kill their leader.  
Unbelievable compassion.  
He hated them for it. He hated them for giving him this spark of…  
The hand lowered. He took a deep breath.

“He cared for me. He cared for me and I almost killed him.” 

He paused and quickly added, his eyes narrowing.

“And _ he _ never cared for me and I killed for _ him _ but I never got to kill _ him _ and it’s killing _ me _.”

How could his therapist’s face remain straight when he said such thing, he wondered? What did she get from the weird sentences he blurted out like that, seemingly out of nowhere?   
But she kept her face straight as usual, and just encouraged him, and there, the fingers were flying again through the air like a pendulum.

He allowed himself to follow the motion numbly for a while, not wanting to focus on this new topic. His ire was gone, along with the distorted visions of his rotten father, along with the whole distorted cognition of the mass. He was just exhausted, too tired to still be alive.  
He had so carefully planned to disappear, never envisioning living over his 18s, watching the time fly by, counting the minutes until finally, the mistake that was his existence would be erased. He had a goal, the goal was achieved, end of story, end of life.  
And yet that wasn’t what had happened at all.  
He’d survived the battle against his own self.  
He'd survived the collapse of the other world.  
He’d survived the trial of public opinion.  
He was still there, alive.  
And he had no idea what to make of it. It ate up at him, he could feel it almost physically, the mistake of his being there when he shouldn’t, when it all should be done and over.  
They should have killed him.  
_ It wasn’t killing him because he was still alive. _

“Why didn’t they kill me? I’m frustrated I’m alive. I don’t know why they’re keeping me here. I should be dead.”  
“Dive into that thought. Focus.”

Maybe she wasn’t unfazed. Maybe she was just that cold. If that was all it took, maybe he could be a therapist too. It wasn’t like that dumb shit even worked. Had there been any difference since the first session? Maybe he did feel a little less troubled at the whole _ initial situation _ . It didn’t change anything about the fact that he was still alive and it was infuriating. If anything, it only made it worse because he _ felt _ more alive too, and it made the nightmares more and more complex after every session.   
He hated that he could remember his dreams so easily.  
He hated that he’d wake up in a cold sweat every night.  
He hated that once he’d woken up his cell neighbour.   
He hated that time when the guard had to call in the doctor because he was having a panic attack in the middle of the night.

When she asked him to breathe and say what was on his mind now, he merely muttered:

“...the nightmares.”  
“Alright. Focus on the nightmares.”  
“There was this case…”  
“Focus.”

She did not let him speak. She was cold, that was it, very cold, she wanted to push him to his limits, maybe he deserved it, maybe he would indeed be a good therapist if he ever got out of there--not _if_\--_when_ he got out of there--he promptly avoided pursuing this line of thinking.

As Goro’s eyes followed the therapist’s hand, his latest nightmare came back to mind.  
It wasn’t even a real life memory, this time, although it came close. It started as a memory of one of the real cases he had to work on, when an officer had brought him a manila envelope with the details of the case and he had revealed the first gruesome real lif crime pictures he had had to face.

The similarities stopped there. The original case was just a terrible murder story of a violent husband who killed his wife. He’d confessed, he’d got away with ten years of prison, Goro still didn’t know how to feel about it all, but in the nightmare things couldn’t be that easy anyway.  
The case he uncovered in his dream sequence was much more complex: two murders at once, disguised as suicides, two pictures he had to investigate, two mothers who had left orphaned children behind them, one who had committed the stupid act of researching cognitive psience, another one who had committed the even stupider act of falling in love with a rotten man.  
From then, the nightmare had gone blurry. He had dived into the pictures as if they were real, and stood by the corpses, seen the mess from the eyes of his fifteen-year-old self.   
There had been blood everywhere, and the stench was awful. How could a dream render smell so well? It had made him drowsy, to the point of passing out, to the point of waking up and throwing himself at the sink to throw up because _it was his fault they were dead, both of them, it was his fault so many died, he shouldn’t have been there,_ and the memories of blood and stench had remained sealed in his mind, haunting him for days afterwards. His subconsciousness was building new memories for him, for his crimes, bringing him from the corpses of those he had killed without seeing them die in real life, to the corpse of the very first dead person he’d ever seen.

Goro almost retched when asked to take a deep breath, and forced words out:

“She should have killed me. I should have died with her.”

_I should have never been born at all._ _I wasn’t meant to be. Look at all the damage… Why did it all have to happen? Why am I still here? Why does everything have to be so tiring?...  
_The voice of the therapist snapped him out of his daze.

“Focus. Don’t move your neck, your head, only your eyes.”

Goro chastised himself for falling into the easy habit of following the motion with his head. It was easier, less painful. Of course she’d notice.   
He tried to breathe when prompted, but it hurt so much… His neck was stiff, his eyes burnt, his body was an overall mess of pain signals going through his mind. 

“..it hurts.”  
“Where does it hurt?”

Before Goro even got the time to open his mouth and give his answer, the hand flew again..

“Observe.”

Wait--that was too fast. He could have answered this one, he didn’t need to observe, he knew. Where did it hurt?  
It hurt everywhere.  
Pain in each and every muscle of his body. He felt so stiff now, his neck completely blocked... And his chest! His chest felt like a black hole, engulfing everything around with its own mass.  
It was a relief when she lowered her hand this time, and despite doing his best to breathe, he felt the air catch in his stiff throat.

“It hurts everywhere… more in the chest, maybe.”

He gasped the sentence, only then realising how _ heavy _ the pang in his chest actually was.   
He felt stupid. It wasn’t like “my chest hurts” would change anything. The therapist remained unfazed, ruthless, going on, no matter what.

“Alright, then, focus on your chest.”

And it went again. It was mesmerizing, but he was struggling to keep his eyes on the fingers, all the while also trying to figure out what was going on in his chest, and it was tough to focus and it felt like his head was splitting again, and so was his chest, and it hurt _ everywhere _.

What good was it even doing now? It was just constant pain with no relief. No feeling of satisfaction, no release. Nothing could come out. It was like trying to summon his personas when his personas were not there anymore.   
They were not there anymore.   
The emptiness was so heavy he could barely breathe.  
Was it the moment when he had to signal he wanted to stop?  
He didn’t want to stop. Did he have to? She had said it was better if he kept going, and it wasn’t like he couldn’t endure pain. What was the acceptable level of pain for someone like him?   
He clenched his hands on the chair instead of raising one, and kept on enduring. When she finally released him from his exhausted chase of the hand flying left and right, he took a deep breath and answered.

“It’s not just the chest. It hurts everywhere and my eyes burn”.  
“Alright. I can see you struggle. Don’t forget you can stop anytime. Don’t forget you’re in control.”

_No, I am not. You are. Someone else always is._  
_Wait, I am. I really only have to raise this hand. She’s waiting for me to do it._  
_But if she’s waiting, isn’t she the one in control? Isn’t she the one pushing you to your limits?_  
Wasn’t being pushed to his limits good, actually?  
Didn’t she say she was there to help him?  
Why would she help?  
_ It’s her _ ** _job_ ** .  
_ She’s not waiting for anything.  
_ _What should I **do**_?

“If you’re willing to go on, I am going to try doing things a little differently. Would that be fine?”

Hands still clenched on the chair, he stiffly nodded.

“Alright. Then, please close your eyes.”

He begrudgingly obeyed, and almost jumped when he felt her come closer, lowering her hands on his knees.

“Please focus on your feelings.”

Her hands slowly tapped on his legs in a steady rhythm, softly, giving a muffled sound every time, sending vibrations through his whole body, and he froze. The discordance between the slow-paced tapping and the beating of his own heart was chilling.  
He could feel his heartbeat going against it, louder and louder.  
He could feel himself go back to that time when his heartbeat was so strong, so fast, before getting slow and muted like the tapping on his legs.  
That time when he was behind a sealed door, barely breathing, listening to the desperate voices behind the wall, facing his own distorted, grinning, ugly self, the monster he had become.

Thump, went Joker’s fists on the wall.  
Thump, went his heartbeat.

He raised his gun, ready to die, ready to finally put an end to a useless and hurtful life.

Thump, went the hand of the therapist on his knee, before the patting stopped.  
The breath he tried to take remained stuck through his throat.

“I’m cold… I’m so cold.”

He was shivering, but didn’t open his eyes, loathing the moment when the tapping would come back--he wasn’t ready--but there it was again, the heartbeat that wasn’t his.

“Focus on this.”

He shivered again. A second, he thought of raising his hand again to stop, but it was like he was frozen on his chair, and couldn’t do a thing.  
Paralyzed.  
Powerless.  
About to die, only able to feel the pounding of his heart through his temples, and the cold eating at him.  
Just like when he had held this gun and shot twice before collapsing and waking up worse for wear in a whole new place, with no more cognitive psience, no more other self.  
Just like when he had waited for the verdict, absolutely convinced that this time was finally the time when it would all come to an end.  
Just like--  
Pat, pat, pat. Thump, thump, thump, _THUMP_\--.

The rhythm remained steady, but his heartbeat picked up.   
Just like that other time when he’d been thrown into that other world, when the darkness had almost devoured him whole because he was defenseless, because he didn’t even know what he was doing there.  
Just like when the deep voice had resounded through his skull, _ I am thou, thou art I. _   
Just like when his heartbeat had suddenly sped up, when he had realized the _ unfairness _ of it all, and how he would have to deal with this by his own self, and how there had been blood on his face and fury in his eyes, and that amazing surge of power as he cried a name he would never cry again, because it was all gone, but the heartbeat was still there, racing now.   
Loki was gone. Robin Hood was gone.  
_ But he was still there.  
_His heart was still beating. The flame from back then was still there.

He took a deep breath when asked, but choked on the air he didn’t expect to fill his lungs, the definite evident that he was--

“I’m not dead--I’m not dead.”

His voice was a broken muffle. He didn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t. He felt tears stubbornly sticking his eyelids closed, felt the drips fall on his face

“Alive--I’m still alive--I’m not dead--”

She hummed encouragingly.

“Focus on that.”

The tapping came back, ominous, his heart racing against the slow taps, and he tried to focus on the motion but the thoughts crossing his mind were slowly driving him crazy.

_I was meant to die. I should have died. I should have never reached my 18._  
He didn’t die. They didn’t let him die. He had reached his 18, and what now? What did he do now? Everything he had ever done had led him to this place. His goal in life was reached. He had no reason to go on. _What should I do when everything is done and there's no reason for me to even remain here?_ Was there anything left? He’d read enough books, smiled enough smiles, told enough lies, he’d got revenge for his very existence, not the revenge he was looking for--but still, revenge--he’d met many people, he’d had people fawn over him, people throw him hate words, he’d done so much.   
Wasn’t it enough?   
Was there anything else left to do?   
His whole future seemed to be in ruins, everything left to rebuild, and the mere idea of it felt exhausting. What was he meant to do?

When the tapping stopped, he forced his eyes open.

“What would I even rebuild?”

It felt like everything he blurted out was non-sequitur over non-sequitur, but always as unfazed, the therapist merely threw him another of her soft, genuine smiles.

“This seems like a good question to end this session on. Do you feel comfortable with ending the session with this, and thinking it over for next session?”

Goro felt a knot form in his throat. He had barely started to feel like he was about to grasp something else, something new, and it was over already?

“That’s… frustrating.”  
“That’s normal. It’s a good thing: it will allow you some time to ponder. Now, on a scale from 0 to 10, how high is your level of disturbance right now?”

Goro took some time to think about it, scanning how he felt in both body and mind.

“...Four.”

Did it really feel like a four? Shouldn’t he be shaking with the feelings that had filled him by the end of the session? But somehow, weirdly, he didn’t feel that emotionally brutalized. It was as if things had come and gone already. He had forgotten the beginning of the session. He had forgotten which level of disturbance he had given then. It was fine. He had questions, and it wasn’t a blatant zero because the frustration was still there. Maybe he’d just randomly elected four, and it didn’t mean anything.

“Good. Let’s conclude with a grounding exercise. First, do you remember the three items?”

Goro nodded, still feeling the knot in his throat. He slowly let his body come back to the room, trailed his eyes on the walls, found the items anchoring him to the reality of the end of the session.

“Book. Pendulum. Mirror.”

His own reflection looked at him from the mirror, appearing even more exhausted than at the beginning of the session, but, somehow, his face, his eyes, seemed brighter.

“I’m tired.”  
“It’s normal, Akechi-san. Remember, what you did today is not an easy exercise. It is taxing, but you did very well.”

He let the words of praise sink in his mind. It was still so hard to believe. How could he do anything well, he wondered, by only letting images fill his mind, and hating himself for allowing them to drown him, and then asking obvious questions he had no answer to.

“I have a hard time believing it.”  
“You always do, and that’s why I will tell you as many time as needed. You did well, you did very well, and it’s not an easy task. Remember your mind and body will process all this. You may have some strange dreams or reminiscences coming to you. Don’t hesitate to write them down and bring them next time.”

He briefly nodded, knowing fully well he wasn’t able to notice what was “strange” in his usual dreams or thoughts and would probably have nothing to bring for the next session.

“Now, to conclude, please take deep breaths, close your eyes and go back to your safe space for a while.”

How ironic, he thought, that his safe space would be Leblanc. The smell of coffee. The grumpy voice of the owner. The soft, soothing sound of the barista slowly pouring boiling water over ground coffee beans.   
He didn’t want to remember faces, just smell, just sounds.   
That was his safe space. That was good enough. Faces would come later, he knew.   
He took deep breaths, as instructed, filling his nostrils with the smell of freshly roasted coffee, his ears deaf to the real world, focusing on his breathing, and his heartbeat, and the sound of coffee flowing in a cup.

“Now, take a final deep breath… and whenever you’re ready, open your eyes.”

He let the smell linger before he opened his eyes, finally allowing his gaze to cross his therapist’s.  
She smiled and the blurry ghost of another smile, a soft and cheeky one, a faraway one in a small café, covered her lips.

He shook himself, straightened up, said thank you, and have a good day, and bowed, and let the grumpy guard waiting for him outside of the office accompany him to his cell. 

The cell was white and bare, with the bare minimum of furniture, a small shelf with books he already knew by heart, and a very tired boy in the mirror hanging over the small sink on the side...   
Everything felt so cold, nothing like the mental place he just came from, but despite himself, he could still feel as if the smell of coffee kept clinging to the outfit he’d been given when he entered the facility.

Tomorrow, they’d probably have him take part in some kind of group activity.   
The day after tomorrow, he’d probably have a free day, to make sure he really knew these stupid books by heart, because who else would give him new ones to read, they didn’t even know he was there, he hadn’t told them anything, maybe they had followed the news, but who could say? It wasn’t like he was allowed contact with the outside world. Not yet. Not so early in his rehabilitation.

But the smell of coffee would linger in his mind, a constant reminder of the world outside.

For a while, he let his tired mind wander again. Their faces if he got to see them again. Would they be horrified? Angry? Would he even get to see them? What would be waiting for him when he got out? His reputation was ruined, he didn’t have a place to live.  
Maybe he’d visit Sae. She’d probably yell at him. Or maybe she’d drive him to Leblanc, and they’d have a cup of coffee together. Would Sakura-san even agree to look at him? Would he throw him out? Would he offer him a job, the way he did for Joker back then? Would he encourage him if he tried to enter university? Maybe he’d try to become a therapist for real. What a ridiculous thought, was it the only thing he’d remember from this session?

How far could human empathy go when one got rehabilitated? How open could the world be?  
Was there such a thing as _ redemption _ waiting for him?

He couldn’t project to when he’d get out, but he knew the time would come eventually, and it was terrifying.   
There would be things out there. Things to face. Things to try out.   
Things to look forward to?  
_Things to rebuild_.

Against all odds, there would be a whole world waiting for him when he’d get out--alive and breathing.  
Against all odds, these stupid therapy sessions _maybe_ were onto something. Something he had burrowed so deep inside he had forgotten it even existed inside him. Something that tasted a little like hope.

But he had to endure some more of the bitter memories of coffee, before finally being able to drink from the sweeter cup of this new life.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, you really read this far?  
From the bottom of my heart, thanks for making it to the end.   
It was a ride to write, let’s be honest. I’m exhausted--I’m not sure how it came out for readers, though. I wonder how it came out for that poor therapist, too. Try reading only what Goro says out loud. These sessions must be rather confusing.
> 
> Please note: of course I cheated, of course this is not a fully accurate depiction of a therapy session.   
NEVER would any therapist go this far or push oneself that much for that much time. There is a reason why therapy sessions have a time limit.  
Honestly, I just wanted an excuse for a long-ass character study.
> 
> Anyway, thanks a lot for reading this up to the end! I hope you liked it at least a bit :)


End file.
